


When Quiet is Violent

by Shadows_echoes



Series: A Series of One-shots [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, I had to do it to 'em, Mentions of Death, Other, Quiet, dealing with grief, my poor boi, seriously. all aboard the angst train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-05 07:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16806199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadows_echoes/pseuds/Shadows_echoes
Summary: Connor learns about grief and what the meaning of quiet really entails.





	When Quiet is Violent

##  **Qui·et**

/ˈkwīət/

_Adjective_

1\. making little or no noise.

2\. carried out discreetly, secretly, or with moderation.

_Noun_

1\. absence of noise or bustle; silence.

_Verb_

1\. make or become silent or still.

By definition, quiet is neither good nor bad. Its worth is derived from context.

By consensus, it is a state that is both synonymous with, and promotive of, calm, thoughtfulness, and serenity. It is often considered a thing to be desired.

Quiet was something you enjoyed. The hushed moments in time spent pondering the less trivial aspects of life, the ones in which conversations could be held so deeply that small-talk wasn’t even a fleeting thought in the back of your mind. Those were the moments you craved, those were your favorite. You told Connor as much, one morning at 3:04 AM, after he insisted that you get some sleep, that the two of you could resume your conversation at a later time. It had been difficult for him to further protest, however, when your rebuttal was uttered with such contentedness. With peace.

He had long ago accepted that youwould be his undoing, and he readily, _happily,_ subjected himself to it. To you.

Connor quickly grew to appreciate the quiet moments as much as you did. With you, he adored them.

Once.

Now he understood the full definition of quiet, the obverse side of which he had been statistically fortunate to avoid discovering before this point in time.

Now he knew that both the definition and the consensus of “quiet” were incorrect. Or, at best, incomplete.

Quiet isn’t an absence of discernable, relevant sounds. It’s not a space void of obtrusive noises thus bringing a sense of peace.

Quiet is only an amplifier.

In the quiet, low hum of the precinct, every slight noise is magnified to a suffocating, glitching, _malfunctioning_ extent. And Connor could hear all of it. He could hear the sharp-toned argument being waged in Fowler’s office. He could hear the detective two desks over repeatedly striking the chewed-off end of her pencil against the top of the desk in a quick, unsteady pattern. He could hear the reception staff assuaging a man who was precisely twenty-four seconds away from having a classifiable panic attack. He could hear the muted voices of news anchors emanating from the television in the break room and the gurgle of the coffee machine as it brewed.

In the quiet, Connor could still hear you screaming.

Over and over and over again, the sound played on a never-ending track inside his head. No matter what diagnostics he ran or analysis he tried -and failed- to distract himself with, he couldn’t block out the sound. Even when he resorted to turning off his hearing for some semblance of peace- for a break he didn’t deserve from the haunting sound, he could still hear it.

And… in a very twisted, illogical way, he almost wanted to. 

Because the sound came from you- it was the last one you’d ever make, and he _couldn’t_ let yougo. 

Because it was his fault.

It was _all_ his fault.

He hadn’t been fast enough, didn’t think far enough ahead, didn’t look into _every possible outcome_ and was thusly blindsided by the worst of them. He failed, _epically_ , and you paid for his mistakes with your life.

In the end, it wasn’t a gentle departure, it wasn’t kind, and it certainly wasn’t merciful.

It was sharp and harsh and bloody and _wrong_ in every single way Connor’s vast imagination could produce _._

And you didn’t deserve it. 

You deserved life, with all its wonders and shortcomings. You deserved a happiness that was so fulfilling it made your chest ache; a contentedness that put your soul at ease and a soft smile on your lips; a burning, all-consuming love that built you up as much as it floored you.

There was always a touch of silence to you, and a shrewd spark of observantness in your eyes. Your quietness wasn’t necessarily because you were shy, but rather because you saw the value in words and used them with thought. When it mattered, when it was about something important, you had next to no qualms about raising your voice. You could, and have in the past, commanded an entire room of people with but two short sentences and a hard, unwavering stare.

You were quiet when you died.

Connor saw you screaming internally, of course, he saw the struggle and determination in your eyes. As he cradled you in his arms, he felt you fighting for life and raging against whatever came after. But the precise moment you died was a quiet one -excluding his own pleading, that is. Whatever you were shouting inside your mind never passed your lips.

Before you died though… Oh Ra9, how you’d _screamed_.

It was a warning, a call, and a plea; fury and fear and love all wrapped into one. He didn’t know how you managed it.

And it was that sound, the sound of life before death, that replayed continuously inside Connor’s head like the ghost of a broken record.

And it only got worse.

In the days afterwards, once the shock had worn off -if it ever truly could-, Connor heard more than just your screaming whenever he wasn’t surrounded by clamorous noise. In any setting that was even remotely quiet, he would hear the nearly inaudible breath that would often pass your lips just before you’d smirk and the weight of your combat boots scuffing against the pavement.

He would hear the throaty, muffled scoff you’d make when attempting to stifle your amusement at some terrible joke and the wholehearted laughter that left tears trailing down your cheeks.

He would hear your fingers drumming along the top of your thigh or the side of your arm, and the pensive silences that frequently accompanied such actions.

He would hear you singing, entirely off-key, with a smile on your face as you drove down the highway.

He would hear the three, monumental words you quietly proclaimed to him one day, and the rushed, nervous sentences that quickly followed.

He would hear the sound of you falling face-first into bed, unhealthily tired, and the scratchiness of your voice in the early morning, both soft and rough at the same time.

He would hear the sounds that slipped past your parted lips as his hands roamed your skin while your own fingers pulled at his hair- at every inch of him you could reach. 

He would hear the calming words you used to soothe the doubts that plagued him regarding his own existence and everything he’d done before deviating.

But whatever he heard, it would always, _inevitably_ , cycle back to the screaming.

You died because of him, and you took most of him with you when you left.

Connor knew of the full spectrum of human emotions, he’d tasted it himself, but humans, generally, had the remarkable ability to bounce back after atrocities. It seemed that no matter what their minds or their flesh endured, they could find their back to life, to _happiness_ , given enough time and sheer will. Whether it be due to fading memories, or acclimation to the pain and its eventual dismissal, people healed.

But Connor isn’t human. His mind isn’t made of slowly degrading, mutating organic material. Androids don’t remember things like humans do; they _relive_ their memories with perfect accuracy to accompany their perfect memory.

The quiet… It isn’t just an amplifier, Connor decided, but an opportunity for the sounds stored in his data banks to present themselves. For his memories to assault him.

And it was violent.

Because the downside of quiet, like so many assumed, wasn’t just one regarding bated breath and fleeting hope, despair and longing.

It was also of death. Of hopelessness. Of a permanent, unalterable silence that was filled with screaming, raging sounds from the past and the unbearable sounds of the present which lacked your contribution.

No one told him, and it wasn’t found in any definition of the word that Connor could find, but the cold truth is that quiet can be just as loud as calamity.

**Author's Note:**

> I read a thought experiment once that said because AI/androids would have a perfect recording of events, if they were to access their memories it would feel like reliving those events for the first time. Which is all fine and dandy until you consider it in relation to, like, the worst day of their lives or something. Idk, it broke my heart to think about so I thought I’d add in that extra small detail of pain 💙 
> 
> Let me know what you thought?


End file.
